


Before the Storm

by crazylittleelf



Category: Fringe, Human Target (TV 2010)
Genre: 100-1000 Words, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-03
Updated: 2010-03-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 16:58:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazylittleelf/pseuds/crazylittleelf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, hell, no. You are not my contact at the FBI."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Storm

Winston's eyes were mournful when they met Peter's, conveying a sense of suffering that brought a little smile to Peter's face. Winston glanced around the dimly lit bar one last time, looking for anyone else that might be there to give away government secrets. "Please tell me you are here to meet someone else."

Peter grinned. "It's good to see you too, Winston."

"Oh, hell, no. You are _not_ my contact at the FBI. You're not even _with_ the FBI. You're a damn con man. You're friends with _Guerrero_," Winston spat. He shook his head and sighed. Winston slid into the booth across from Peter and glared at the other man.

"Times change, Winston. I'm a reformed con man now."

Winston snorted and waved the waitress away. "Reformed my ass," he muttered under his breath. "You have information on the goons going after Shannon Doyle?"

"Goons is a pleasantry. These are not goons. These guys are scary."

"Scary how? Like Guerrero scary?"

"No, like, The Sopranos meets Night of the Living Dead, scary."

Winston's forehead wrinkled into a confused frown.

"Chance needs to walk away from this one." Peter's eyes were as earnest as Winston could ever remember them being. He almost thought Peter was telling the truth.

"You know he won't do that." Winston flicked his eyes over Peter, took in the tense line of his shoulders, the clench of his jaw. "What aren't you telling me?"

Peter leaned forward and lowered his head, ducking against some unseen enemy. "Winston, what was Chance doing eighteen months ago?"

The frown deepened. "What? Hell, Bishop, I don't remember."

"Was he working anything in Boston? Some undercover thing in the FBI?"

"No." Winston's voice was outraged, like he couldn't imagine anything worse. "Why?"

Peter drummed his fingers against the surface of the table and turned to stare towards the bar. He shook his head after a moment.

"What, Bishop? You know something I should?"

Peter's eyes darted back to Winston. The photo appeared out of nowhere and Peter slid it across the table. His fingers lingered on the edge of the paper like he was reluctant to let it go.

It was Chance smiling at a blond woman in a gray suit. He was guiding her through a doorway, fingers curled over her arm possessively. They were walking too close together, and the little smile that was on the woman's face spoke volumes.

Winston looked up slowly. "What the hell is this?"

Peter's eyes were intense, angry, and Winston remembered all too well the temper that lurked under the surface of Peter Bishop. "That's what I'm asking you."

Winston tipped his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. "What are you playing at, Bishop?"

Peter leaned closer and snarled. "_I'm_ not the one playing at anything. Whatever the hell this was, Chance made a fucking mess of it and I'm stuck cleaning up after him, and whatever the fuck he's doing now he needs to remember that this cover," Peter stabbed his finger at the photo, "is dead. I do not want to deal with the fallout of his goddamn ghost showing up. Again."

Winston raised an eyebrow.

Peter pushed back from the table and slouched against the back of the booth. "Long story."

Winston tapped a finger against the photo.

"Chance needs to stay the hell out of Boston." Peter's voice was low and held the hint of a threat.

Winston looked up again, and while it galled him to do so, he nodded his agreement. "I don't know what the hell this is, but Guerrero will take care of the goons. I'll take care of Chance."

Peter drew a thumb drive from his pocket and pushed it across the table. "I'll email the keyfile to you." He stood and stalked from the bar, hands shoved into his pockets and shoulders hunched against the light rain that was starting to fall.

Winston stared at the photo in front of him and tried to quell the sinking sensation in his stomach.


End file.
